


Five Alternate Universes

by derevko_child



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Thieves, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Dollhouse alternate universes starring Adelle DeWitt and Laurence Dominic (sort of)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tactile Proximity

 

This room is unlike all the other rooms in here. This is where they bring her for her treatments. She likes her treatments, it makes her be her best, and that’s why she likes being in this room. She also likes sitting on this chair. It makes her feel different.

“Is it time for my treatment?” She looks up and sees the yellow-haired boy grinning at her

“Yes.” he says, putting something sticky under her neck. She looks at it curiously “But this is a very special one, Juliet. This one won’t pinch, like… the others you don’t remember.”

_(Except that she does and it hurts more than a pinch. Being imprinted isn’t the beginning; it’s the end. And it’s filled with so much pain)_

She smiles at him and leans back on the chair, her hands on top of the armrest. She looks around and sees a yellow-haired man standing in the corner of the room.

She tilts her head and looks at him. He looks grumpy, like when Mike gets hungry. It’s not nice when you’re grumpy all the time. She knows, because Mike always gets in trouble when he’s grumpy.

_(Mike, in her opinion, is genetically predisposed to frowning. Just like this man.)_

She has never seen him before. And even though he’s frowning at her, she likes him. “Hello.” She chirps, happily.

The yellow-haired man grunts and then turns to the yellow-haired boy.

_(She doesn’t know how she can differentiate a man from a boy; she just does)_

“Is this necessary?”

“Absolutely.” The boy answers, “You need to be in her line of sight for the Handler-Active imprint, Lorenzo.”

“Don’t call me that.”

_(Laurence, then?)_

She tilts her head to side and watches them. They sound so… she frowns. She can’t describe it. She hasn’t seen anything like this with the others. This isn’t pleasant but it’s not bad either. She likes watching them.

_(He also doesn’t look like a Laurence)_

“If I call you ‘Lorenzo’ all the time, will you keep telling me to ‘don’t call me that’, every time?” the boy’s face lights up and he holds up his hands, “This can be a Pavlovian experiment! I can give you treats!”

“Can you just shut up and finish this?”

“He-he-hey, watch the language. You’re talking in front of a child!”

_(Not so much of a child. Not anymore)_

She looks at the man before looking at the boy and then looking back at the man again.

“You’re grumpy.” She says aloud, almost pointedly.

She hears someone chuckling, “You’re right, Juliet.” She turns towards the boy and he nods his head, “Your new handler _is_ grumpy.”

“Why are you grumpy?” she asks, concerned. He isn’t hungry, is he? Maybe Miss Cindy can give him something to eat. Miss Cindy gives them food when they’re hungry.

The frown on the man’s face grows deeper. He ignores her, “So what are you going to do? Join us in the hip with your black magic? Make her think that we’re best freakin’ friends forever?”

“First thing first, this isn’t magic. It’s part science, part art. It’s Sci-art.” She hears the boy say. “And second, this isn’t about friendship, man. It’s about trust.”

Her brows furrow. She doesn’t really understand what they’re saying. Aren’t they all friends here? She likes to be friends with this yellow-haired man. His tie is pretty. It matches the color of his eyes. They are like the crayons that she uses for the color of the sky.

_(Blue and deep)_

“After this, Juliet will always trust you, without question or hesitation. No matter what the circumstance. You’re about to become the most important person to one of the most requested Actives in the LA Dollhouse.”

She feels him look at her. Why does he look so confused?

“I thought the old guys like younger girls? Like that Echo?”

She brightens up when she hears Echo’s name. She likes Echo.

_(Something’s different with Echo. Something is… changing)_

“I like Echo.” She beams.

“Yes, you do, Juliet. You all like each other.” The boy agrees and smiles at her before turning to the thing that makes clickety sounds, “Juliet is… well, let’s just say, that classical facial structure of hers works really well with women-in-power kind of imprints.” before turning to the man again, “Some of ‘em like old and fierce, if you didn’t know.”

She’s starting to get a little restless in her seat, but she tries to stay put.

“Fine. Can we just get this done and over with?”

“ _Sci-art_ , Lorenzo. This isn’t an oil change, despite what you might have been led to believe.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

She feels the chair tilting downwards and she feels her body automatically relaxing. She then hears the steady hum of the chair, which lulls her mind to vacuity.

_(It was intended to be that way)_

“Everything’s going to be—”

“—take her hand.”

“What.”

“Hold her hand.”

“Why?”

“Because! Tactile proximity enhances bonding protocol, man. Take Juliet’s hand and look into those pretty green eyes of hers.”

She feels the man take her hand. They’re rough, but his hold is gentle.

“Everything’s going to be alright.”

She likes the sound of his voice. She shifts in the chair and looks at him. “Now that you’re here.” She replies.

“Do you trust me?”

Blue eyes look back at her and she suddenly feels warmth enveloping her body.

She squeezes his hand, almost affectionately.

_(Because this time, it isn’t just a mindless, robotic response. She’s aware of what’s happening and she fully accepts trusting this man)_

“With my life.”


	2. Confessional

  
Every morning, after he wakes up, he prays. He thanks God that he’s been given another day to do His deed and spread His word. He then goes on to pray that the day be bountiful with good acts and overall, make the day a fine day for mankind.  
  
After morning prayers, he does his chores. He oversees the cleaning of the statues (all thirty of them), and he rakes the leaves in the garden, sweeps the courtyard and checks on the bell tower.  
  
After afternoon prayers, he does his priestly duties. On Mondays and Fridays, he plays the organ during afternoon masses, while on Wednesdays, he celebrates them. On Saturdays and Sundays, he goes to the community center to conduct bible studies. And every day, he provides counsel to anyone who seeks it.  
  
After evening prayers, he stays in the confessional booth to give the sacrament of confession to those who seek penance for their sins.  
  
Father Laurence Dominic quietly walks by the statues and makes sure that the melted candle waxes aren’t dripping on the floor (they’re quite difficult to scrape off in the morning) before heading towards the confessional booth, which is at the opposite side of the altar.   
  
He keeps his head bowed down as he purposefully strides across the floors. At the same time, he takes note of the number of people on the pews, praying (or maybe just thinking).  
  
He opens the door to the priest’s side of the booth and goes in. He takes the bible on the chair as he sits down and opens the small screen to his right.  
  
The day has been good so far. He had a counseling session with an engaged couple that afternoon, and he has high hopes for them. Tony and Priya. An amused expression appears on his face as he remembers his meeting with them a few hours ago. He has known Tony for almost two years now and even though he has only met Priya three months ago, he can tell that their partnership will last for a long, long time. He doesn’t know how he knows, he just does.  
  
The door on the other side of the booth opens. He lifts his head up and waits.  
  
For a few minutes, the person on the other side doesn’t say anything. But he waits, still.  
  
“I’m not here to confess, Father.” A woman whispers, “But… I just… I just need someone to talk to.”  
  
“You're in the right place.” He says. It’s more of listening on his part. When someone says they need somebody to talk to, what they actually mean is that they need someone to listen to them. And he knows that out there, no one really listens anymore.  
  
“I’m not a very religious person…”  
  
“God listens to everyone.” He replies, “And I assure you that in the house of God, everybody listens without judgment or bias.”  
  
Laurence waits for her to speak. He can hear hitches in her breathing, as if she’s trying to stop herself from crying.  
  
“Eight months ago, my husband died. Car accident. We’ve been married for only two years.” She starts, “I knew, back then, that it will be difficult for me to…” she pauses and takes in a ragged breath, “that it will be difficult for me to move on, to accept his death. And I was right.”  
  
He can feel her grief; he understands what she must feel.  
  
“It’s just that, I can’t bear the pain any longer. My heart hurts so much. Every day when I wake up and every night when I try to sleep, it hurts and I don’t know what to do. I tried to reach out to others, Father, I tried, but somehow, I feel like no one’s there.   
  
Sometimes, I want to end it. I’d sit still in the living room, stare at that little spot on the wall and think about killing myself. Then there are times when I wish it was me in that car, and not Roger. I just want him back so badly.”  
  
“Taking your life away won’t bring him back.” Laurence says, softly.   
  
She’s starting to sob and he’s finding it very difficult to focus. He’s never been comfortable with tears and there’s part of him that wants to reach out and tell her that everything’s going to be all right.  
  
“I know. I know.” She says. “I miss him, terribly. I tried to go back home to London, but I couldn’t. I can’t bear to leave our house because everything reminds me of him. It comforts me but it’s also utterly depressing. Why couldn’t he stay?” she asks.  
  
“Maybe,” He leans his head back, “it was his time to go.” Mentally, he asks God to give her (and him) strength at this very moment.  
  
“Life isn’t fair.”  
  
“It never is, most of the time.”  
  
He lets her talk about Roger until she can’t anymore.   
  
~*~  
  
On the same day, at around the same time every week, she goes to the confessional booth to talk.   
  
Her name is Adelle. And Adelle talks mostly about Roger, her life with Roger. There are times when she shares something about herself (her childhood in London, her opinion of stem cell research, falling in love with the beaches of California) and he appreciates that she feels that she can trust him enough with those information.  
  
There’s a time when she didn’t talk at all, instead telling him that she wants to listen to him for a change.  
  
 _“It must be difficult for you, Father, to listen to me gab about my problems week in and out.”_  
  
He acquiesces to her request, sharing a bit of his life with her.  
  
The visit goes on for months and months. He never treated it as a secret, but he doesn’t tell anyone about it either (though he tells himself that if anybody asks, he’ll give the information to them freely). He knows that the whole thing would appear inappropriate to a lot of the conservative parishioners.  
  
And then, as suddenly as the whole thing started, it stops.  
  
He has never seen her; she always manages to disappear before he’s left his side of the confessional booth. And part of him feels that it should be that way. He feels like the emotional bond he formed with her is deeper than his relationship with most of his parishioners.  
  
Sometimes, when he sits inside the confessional booth, he would wish (pray) that she comes back again, just for a goodbye.  
  
She never comes back. He doesn’t expect her to.  
  
Adelle slips into his thoughts when the day is idle, but it doesn’t happen too often to require him some sort of religious intervention.   
  
The only thing that changed in his routine when she entered (and exited) his life is that she gets a special mention in his prayers, nothing more.


	3. The World is a Stage (And I am its Star)

She stares the cover of the magazine, fixated at the beautiful image in front of her. One of the best ballet dancers in the whole world stares back at her rather intensely, and she’s lucky enough to be in a position where she can be staring at a magazine cover one minute and staring at the man for real the next.  
  
The man who is the toast of the entire world of dance for his superb technique and his glorious stage presence has returned to the company that made him a star.  
  
“They make it sound so overly dramatic,” Priya says and puts down the magazine, “The prodigal son returns? It’s not as if Dominic came back begging on his knees for… I don’t know, a janitorial job or something.” She takes a stick of celery from her plate and starts munching on them. They’re hanging out in a small cafe just a few blocks away from the company studio.  
  
They’re a common fixture in this place. Their group, which consists of Paul Ballard from Joffrey, Topher Brink (self-proclaimed genius of the American Ballet Company), C. W. Craft (but they call him Carl… except for Topher), herself and Priya relax in this café after classes and rehearsals. And what’s wonderful about it is that they’re the only ones who prefer this little nook in the city.  
  
Echo takes the magazine, “You're making it too biblical, Pri.” She starts flipping through the magazine, “The fallout was massive. Everybody involved with the company thought he wouldn’t be able to step foot in New York again.” She takes a celery from Priya’s plate.  
  
“I’ve heard so many different versions of that fight, I really don’t know what to believe.” her friend replies, as she swats her hand away from her plate.  
  
Priya, who was with the Australian Ballet since she could walk, has been dancing with the American Ballet Company for a little over a year. She’s been introduced to Laurence Dominic, ballet danseur extraordinaire, but they’ve yet to have a formal conversation.  
  
“Oh, trust me, it was explosive.”  
  
Echo reads the article. It _is_ a little dramatic, but then, the world of dance is a world populated with excessively competitive, perfection-driven people who are all prone to (lots and lots of) drama. A little drama in this magazine article isn’t new.  
  
“Really?” Priya adds, “Everybody welcomed him back with open arms, didn’t they? Harding was even grinning, for god’s sake.”  
  
She looks up, “And DeWitt?” she asks, raising a brow.  
  
They love it here in this cafe; they have more freedom with gossiping about their fellow dancers (and the choreographers, the pianist, the artistic director, the members of the board… basically everyone involved in the company).  
  
Priya wrinkles her nose, “DeWitt’s an exception. As always.”  
  
She remembers the icy expression on the woman’s face when Dominic approached her. Adelle DeWitt is a stoic woman offstage, but she’s seen enough of her genuine smiles to know that DeWitt isn’t as heartless as some people might think her to be. But the tight smile she gave Dominic during the welcome party was chilling,  
  
“I can’t blame her. I can’t even begin to comprehend how she must have felt. I don’t know what I would do if one day, out of the blue, Topher tells me that he’s leaving for Bolshoi Ballet at that very moment.” Priya takes the bottle of water from the table and unscrews the cap,  
  
“And to think he’s only been my partner for four months; DeWitt and Dominic were basically partners for three years and at the pinnacle of their careers. Imagine how that would feel like.”  
  
“Devastation. Betrayal.” Echo answers, “Large amounts of all-encompassing rage?” She was in her last year in the Academy and hoping to get a spot in the company when the row happened. It was the most dramatic event she had witnessed in her _life_.  
  
Priya shrugs, “I wouldn’t know, I was still in Sydney when that happened.” She says and takes a sip from the water bottle, “And then they pair her off with him again. Okay, I agree they’re magnificent together, and Dominic can sweep me off my feet if he starts dancing in front of me, but it’s amazing that she hasn’t bashed him in the head with a foldable chair after what he did.”  
  
“Well, she needs someone who can also stand out on his own when he’s onstage with her,”  
  
DeWitt’s been partnered by Boyd Langton and Tony Ceccoli, and the two – being very able dancers –held their own against DeWitt. But more often than not, they would always receive the negative end of a review,  
  
“to make sure that the pas de deux doesn’t turn into a solo.”  
  
Echo takes her cup of tea and takes a sip as she stares at the picture. Dominic can be such an arrogant bastard during his bad days, but the photographer manages to make him look innocent and dreamy in his pictures.  
  
“Oh, you did hear they’re going to do Diana and Acteon for the June gala, right?”  
  
She looks up at her friend in surprise. No, she hasn’t heard of this news. “I thought Boyd and Claire will dance Diana and Acteon?” she can see the dance in her head, all sexy, powerful and Greek.  
  
“Paul didn’t tell you?” Priya scoffs a little, making a face. They both know that Paul can be quite a ditz sometimes, “Harding decided to switch the dances. Boyd and Claire will dance Sarabande while DeWitt and Dominic get Diana and Acteon.”  
  
Her thoughts swirl. She has hero-worshipped Adelle DeWitt since she was in her teens, back when DeWitt was still with the Royal Ballet. She knows that the two had performed it before, but she hadn’t seen it. Ever since she joined the company, she had wished to see the ballet performed by DeWitt and her old partner.  
  
She actually thought such wish would be improbable, given that Dominic was in Moscow at that time.  
  
“Oh. My. God!” Echo exclaims, “DeWitt, Dominic and Diana and Acteon? They’ll murder us with their greatness!” Excitement tingles in her. If she remembers the schedules correctly… an elated squeal escapes her lips and she stops herself from jumping out of the couch and leaping through the air. She can watch the rehearsals.  
  
“But...” She suddenly frowns and trails off, motioning her hand in the air, “DeWitt? Devastation, betrayal, large amounts of encompassing rage? And Diana and Acteon?”  
  
“Don’t forget the rumours about why Dominic came back.”  
  
Echo purses her lips. Of course, how can she forget about that? Even the magazine article pointed it out.  
  
She watches as a grin breaks out on Priya’s face, “The boys made a betting pool. Wanna join?” Echo finds the grin with the accent just plain adorable. It just seems so natural on an Aussie.  
  
“You’re all asking for trouble, you know that?” she lightly says as she pulls her legs up on the couch and leans back, observing her friend. She has such an ethereal presence, “What are you betting about?”  
  
“Nothing specific.” She replies, batting her eyelashes almost innocently “We all know something’s going to happen, Echo. It’s just a matter of when.”  
  
“So it’s a when kind of bet.” She nods her head and looks around, “How much?”  
  
Her friend starts chewing on another celery, “Ten bucks. You chuck in another if you lose, and then another ten if you want to make a bet again.”  
  
“Who’s in?”  
  
“Me, Paul, Topher, Carl. Tony too, I think. I heard Benny’s in, and Boyd—Topher said he got Boyd, I don’t know.”  
  
“Topher says he got Boyd, huh?” she drinks her tea, “Speaking of the boys, what’s taking them so long?” she asks. Paul, Topher and Carl had gone out to get a haircut and it’s almost an hour since they’ve been gone.  
  
“Maybe they went shopping.” Priya offers and curls up on her armchair, “Finding a set of wardrobe to match their identical haircuts.”  
  
“Ew.”  
  
A few minutes later, the three walks inside the café, as if the mere mention of their names had summoned them to where they are.  
  
“Hello, darlings. Did you miss us?” Carl asks and sits beside her. He reaches out to Priya’s plate to get the last stick of celery, but Priya swats his hand away.  
  
“You're late.” Echo says. She looks at his hair. It didn’t seem to have shortened in length.  
  
“Oh, sweet Caroline, blame Paul-O here.” Topher, who’s wearing a funky-looking knitted hat, replies as he sits beside Priya.  
  
Paul, who grabbed the chair from the empty table, gives Topher a look but ignores him. He turns to her, “What did we miss?” he asks.  
  
Echo shrugs, “Nothing much. Snickering about Harding. Hero-worshipping DeWitt. Gushing about how dreamy Dominic is… Pri filled me in on the bet.”  
  
Paul grins, “And?”  
  
“They’re going to have our heads if they hear about this.”  
  
Carl manages to steal the celery from Priya’s plate, “They won’t hear about it. We’re all discreet gamblers here.”  
  
“Yeaah.” Topher drawls, nodding his head in an absurdly slow fashion, “Discreet. We’re all discreet. Boyd’s the master of discreet. Bennet, Tony, Paul, C-W, Pri, you… masters of the art of ninja-secret-keeping. Me? I’m an apprentice.”  
  
“So, are you in?” Paul asks.  
  
Echo doesn’t say anything. She loves these two people from afar and betting about them just seems… wrong.  
  
She shrugs, “I'll think about it"

 


	4. Black Queen, White Knight

The air is fraught with tension and every time he takes a deep breath, he smells the anxiety that has started to impinge everybody in the museum.  
  
He stares at the empty display case, what used to be the home of a thirty-million-dollar bronze statue. The Dancing Child (made in the early seventeenth century, about sixteen inches tall with small, thin metal swirls around it) was put on display three days ago for a museum event, and was reported stolen yesterday, at 4 AM EST.  
  
He can hear the chatter around him, a barrage of Italian with a sprinkle of English and French (Interpol agents, he presumes). There’s one word that keeps getting repeated, a word that has achieved notoriety in the past year, a word that represents the one person that he has been relentlessly pursuing for the last eight months.  
  
Delta.  
  
He looks at the area surrounding the display case. The thief’s been known not to leave any trace of his presence – no sign of entry, of tool marks, not even a calling card – a ghost. They’ve attributed 12 thefts of artwork, jewelry and other museum artifacts to Delta (half of which are insured by his employer, Rossum Insurances) with the knowledge that he has probably stolen a lot more.  
  
He’s the only person to have recovered a piece of artwork stolen by Delta. It’s not something he’s proud of— the painting was left for him to find, or at least, that’s how he sees it.   
  
“What do you think, Mr. Dominic?”  
  
He glances to his side and finds the chief of security for the museum, a large man named Romeo, waiting for his reply.  
  
“The thief knew your security procedures.” He simply answers.  
  
“But that’s impossible!” Romeo exclaims with a heavy accent and then lowers the tone of his voice, “Is this the work of Delta?”  
  
“Maybe, maybe not.” He says, and shoves his hands inside his coat pockets, “Have you or the police found the point of entry?”  
  
“No, not yet.”  
  
“And your security codes get changed every seventy-two hours?”  
  
“Yes, how did you—”  
  
“—it’s my job to know.” He answers. He looks about and sees that the police are still sweeping the area for evidence. It won’t be of any use to talk to them right now. He turns his attention back to Romeo, “Can you walk me through your security procedures?”  
  
The clock goes by quickly and the next thing he knows, it’s already nearing dinnertime. He hasn’t gotten anything at all in the crime scene, as expected.  
  
His hotel is a few blocks away from the museum and he decides to walk than take a cab.   
  
His stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten anything since the plane landed twelve hours ago.  
  
As he crosses the intersection, he mentally makes a list of the things he needs to do. Getting something to eat is first on the list. And while he’s eating, he can probably call his contacts. A thief is bound to leave a trail. But Delta... Delta seems to appear and disappear at whim, without a trace.   
  
The six years he’s worked as an insurance investigator, he hasn’t seen anything like this. He has chased a lot of thieves and Delta doesn’t act like any of them. It’s not because of the hubris, it’s not for money—if it is, then the people he’s stealing for are _very_ discreet.  
  
He walks through the hotel doors, nodding at the doorman and goes to the front desk to get the key to his room. He then goes straight to elevator, paying little attention to the people around him.  
  
It might be a little late to call Ivy right now, he thinks, as he walks out of the elevator and into the hallway. He glances at his watch. Or maybe not. Ivy has always had a whacked-out sleeping schedule.  
  
He swipes his key card on the sensors and opens the door to his room. He closes the door behind him before letting out a tired sigh.  
  
He unbuttons his coat and loosens his tie as he walks across the carpeted floor. He doesn’t know where to start this investigation. It’s starting to frustrate him. He has chased a lot of thieves and frauds before and he has caught up with them at least twice.  
  
A few steps into the bedroom, he suddenly freezes. His eyes quickly scan the area. It looks the way he arrived to it this morning, but something feels different here—like that cell phone that isn’t his on top of the table by the window.  
  
Wariness settles heavily within him and he takes a tentative step towards the table. It might be a cell phone that makes calls, or it can be a cell phone that explodes (maybe it can be both). Bombs at those sizes are deadly, created to make the most impact.  
  
There’s a card beside the phone. He cautiously reaches out and takes it.  
  
Scribbled at the underside of the paper is a triangle.  
  
Which is also the Greek letter Delta.  
  
As if on cue, the cell phone starts ringing.   
  
His stomach grumbles as he contemplates on whether to take the call. This could be an advantage for him. Or maybe the phone will explode when he takes the call. He doesn’t really know.  
  
He presses the answer button and puts the phone by his ear.  
  
 _“I wasn’t sure you’d take my call, Mr. Dominic.”_  
  
He’s not surprised at all that the thief knows his name. What surprises him is that the voice at the other end of the line clearly belongs to a woman.   
  
Delta is a woman  
  
He clears his throat, “Why _did_ you call?” he asks, looking out the window.   
  
_“I’m not entirely certain either. Maybe I felt the need to make contact with the man who’s been chasing me for almost a year? ”_  
  
Her voice has a rich texture, pleasing to the ears. She also has a bit of a British accent.  
  
“I thought you called to tell me you would be giving the Dancing Child back out of the goodness of your heart.” He says, allowing a little sarcasm in his tone.  
  
 _“Now, why would I do that when I can just leave it for you to find?”_  
  
A small, annoyed growl escapes his throat.  
  
 _“I suppose I’ve hurt your ego with that act of goodwill on my part.”_  
  
He frowns, sensing her amusement with this whole scenario.  
  
“I don’t know what you intend to accomplish with this, but let me make this clear to you: I will find you and I will make sure the police get you.” He says, a little angrier than he intended.  
  
He hears her chuckle. God knows he shouldn’t be finding a disembodied voice sexy, but the laugh just sends a tingle in his spine.  
  
 _“I’ll be a little bit more careful the next time I pursue my craft, then.”_  
  
This call may be an act of hubris in her part or it may just be a flight of fancy. He hasn’t encountered her face-to-face for him to determine which it is.  
  
 _“This call is already getting too long. Goodbye, Mr. Dominic. It’s nice to finally hear your voice. . Enjoy your stay in Florence”_  
  
He hears a click and the other line goes dead.  
  
He looks at the phone in his hand. What now, he thinks. There’s no use tracing the call. The phone is disposable; Delta probably had already tossed it away. He can’t call Ivy and tell her to find records of a British woman with background in intelligence—it’ll be too vague and idiotic of him. And he definitely can’t go to the police with this. He might be investigated and he won’t be able to do his job.  
  
His stomach grumbles once again.  
  
He decides to eat first and think about how to deal with Delta later.  
  
  
  



	5. The Mole

“Man, man, stop pestering me. I’m doing this as fast as I can!” he says in irritation. He lets his fingers fly on the keyboard, typing in several commands.

“Lives are at stake here, Topher.”

“I know, okay? The mole – or moles – can compromise operations, blah blah blah, I know, Dom.” he whirls around to turn to face the Assistant Director, “But man, hovering around, invading my personal space? It’s kinda skeevy. And it won’t do anything.”

Dominic gives him a disapproving glare

He puts his hands up in annoyance and turns around, “Alliance tech is as complicated as mine, which means it’s _very_ complicated. Their little black book of their agents won’t be easily cracked.”

The frown that Dominic always seems to be sporting just turns deeper. He gets it, Dominic doesn’t have drill it in his head. The mole is dangerous; he can get all of them killed. He’s a freakin’ computer genius, and sometimes the tech he comes up with for the ops might seem magic, but he’s not a damn magician.

“It’s gonna take a while, my friend. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He says and glances at his monitor. Numbers and letters flash on the screen at a dizzying speed.

“Make sure you have something when DeWitt checks on you.” Dominic tells him, in a rather I’m-threatening-to-stuff-you-in-a-crate-if-you-already-didn’t-know manner.

“I will…” he trails off, wrinkling his nose at the prospect of facing the Director’s steely, raised eyebrow of doom, “Hopefully.”

Dominic leaves him be after a few minutes of making sure that he doesn’t let anyone else know what he’s doing (easy enough, the monitor he’s using isn’t facing the doorway or the glass walls) and that he doesn’t let anyone near the computer (again, another easy thing to do since he doesn’t really go out of this room)

He goes towards his mini-fridge and takes out a juice pack and a beef jerky. He sinks down on one of his bean bags and watches as terabytes and terabytes of information is processed by his computer.

He belongs to a super duper secret international organization. Kind of like, the Impossible Mission Forces, except more… international. He takes a bite of the beef jerky. Well, they never really specified who oversees the IMF in the series (or in the movies). So maybe they _are_ like the IMF. Fighting terrorists, and those who fund them day in and day out.

He grins. He isn’t a spy. Not really. He’s been working here for the past two years and he still can’t get over the fact that he’s being paid to make spy tech just like Q—except he’s way younger than Q and probably more suave than his (fictional) counterpart.

He relaxes on his chair and drinks his juice as he listens to the silent hum of his computers.

He can communicate with machines. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. It’s a gift. He understands their language, understands what they need, understands the intricacies of their pieces. And he stands in awe at the rate the technology is growing and it thrills him that he’s part of it. Even if most of what he’s doing is top secret and won’t be probably shown to the public (not in their original state).

The phone on his desk rings and he stands up to take the call.

“World of tomorrow, King of the World speaking. How may I help thee?” he greets, glancing at the monitor. The program still isn’t up.

He scratches the side of his head as Ivy starts ranting about the half-finished plans he forwarded to her. He needed to free his table a bit for this mole-busting business and he tries to come up with an excuse as to why he can’t help her. After all, cracking open the Alliance’s agent list is a need-to-know basis.

“Uh, no can-do, Ivy my dearest. Dom asked me to do something for big boss lady.” He says, looking out the glass windows. He can see Ivy at the other end of the office, looking at him furiously as she talks to him on the phone.

“I can, uh… email my explanations to you? Most of the stuff I gave you doesn’t fall under the RFN category. Except for the fire-resistant jump suit for Tony… and the tranq dart lipstick refill for Caroline. That’s about it…”

He almost sighs in relief when Ivy relents. He puts the phone back on its cradle and shakes his head.

“Knock, knock.”

The voice startles him and he looks up to see Agent Craft standing by the doorway.

“Oh, hey. Carl.” He greets as he makes a move towards the monitor and block the screen from his view.

“I was wondering if you’re finished with your modifications for my cell. I’ll be leaving for Costa Rica in an hour.”

He stares at the blond man. He doesn’t admit it out loud, but he’s slightly afraid of Agent Carl William Craft (call sign: Alpha). There’s something creepy with the way he just stares at people (or maybe it’s the three names. He goes by three names!)

“Right, your phone.” He says and turns towards the mess on his work station, “Right, uh, I think I sent it to Ivy. I’m a little bit swamped with stuff right now.”

“What are you doing?” Craft asks. He notes the interested tone he had adopted.

He can turn off the monitor but that would look too suspicious. Obviously, he can’t stop the program from running, especially when the idea of DeWitt popping in any moment was dangled in his head by Dominic.

“Nothing, really. Something the Assistant Director asked me to do. Complicated stuff.” He answers, shrugging, “Ivy probably has your phone. I remember putting it in the box. It’s done, don’t worry about it. I assure you it’s one of the things that won’t go wrong in case your mission in Costa Rica goes wrong. Not that I’m saying it’ll go wrong. Good luck in Costa Rica.”

Okay, he’s just acting plain stupid.

Craft gives him a weird look before nodding his head, “Thanks.” He says and turns around to go to Ivy.

He lets out a sigh of relief. Maybe he should call Dominic and tell him to stop people from bothering him so that this super secret Alliance code-cracking would remain secret.

His computer suddenly beeps. He whirls around and sees that there’s a breakthrough with the Alliance codes.

An enthused grin breaks out on his face. Complicated Alliance tech? Hah, apparently, it’s not that complicated for them; not for Christopher Brink (call sign: Charlie)

He goes to the keyboard and types in the command to double-check the names against their files. He makes sure to put their division first in the queue.

He finishes the rest of his juice before calling Dominic’s office.

“Hey, yo, Delta-2. I made some—”

All of the sudden, he hears two small pops coming from behind him and the air gets knocked out of him when he feels something painfully pierce his back twice.

His knees buckle and he blinks as he feels himself falling down. He crashes on his table and brings with him some of the gadgets he had on top of his work station before dropping down the floor.

He can’t move. He can see a pair of feet walking towards him. He tries to move, tries to stand up, but he realizes that his legs aren’t cooperating.

“I’m sorry about that, Topher. I truly am.” The voice belongs to Agent Craft, “You’re just too good for… well, your own good.”

He hears the sound of an ear-shattering explosion.

Then he blacks out.  



End file.
